A Place Under the Sky
by the.last.of.the.crazy.people
Summary: 'I've been so unbreakable for so long. And now I'm frail. Refusing to believe, pain-stricken with all the times I never cried and I can't bring myself to feel nothing anymore.' [slash, twincest, self-injury. D/H, Fr/Ge]


A/N: 'Ello, my only HP fic, or fic in general, this. Purely self-indulgent, I just didn't feel like making up my own characters for this cause deep down I knew I was ripping them off from somewhere. *smiles* Ah well, onward then...  
  
  
  
  
***Warnings and trivialities*** Nothing's mine, everything's hers. Obviously... and the plot's mine, thankfully, because I doubt if JKR would have had quite the audience of kiddies if she'd written the disturbing psycho-junk that's piled into this... thing.  
  
  
This has slash, insane twincest (gah, no smut... .), and self-injury. Anyone wanting to avoid triggers, or who has a weak stomach/is a Catholic/is a Republican/etc., well... *points to the back button*  
  
  
  
  
  
A Place Under the Sky  
  
  
  
  
  
+malfoy+  
1. something beautiful that's only ugly cause it's me  
  
  
  
I have no hatred for the Dark Arts, no. There's no evil nor malice to it, just a simple comforting betrayal the spell I cast again and again. Killing flies in my little house. Practicing up for the big game. Sitting in my dorm with my wand in the crook of my hand.  
  
  
Fact remains that I think of it almost never, that I'll be branded like an animal and handed over into uncertainty, I *can't* think of that. That I'll be on the doorstep of the Muggle house one night and be thinking about how much like dolls they are, moulded in our earthly forms but without the breath of magic, the spark of life.  
  
  
Lifeless little dolls. And that I'll be felling them one by one.  
  
  
No, there is a deafening blindness to living forever in the moment. Being trapped like this, in the breathless confines of the endless churning sky, and all you can see and feel for miles is what you imagine.  
  
  
So I'll keep living like this. Avada Kedavra, a fallen fly. A fallen child. Playing with my dolls. And really, I don't have to think about the future, do I? The moment keeps me here.  
  
  
There's something so inhumanly grounding about never taking off one's robes unless the room is empty and the mirrors covered. I can't say it for knowing, for I still look at myself sometimes just to see my reality captured in the glass. And to snap an image of the moment that I can remember but never do.  
  
  
It's a continuum.  
  
  
It's a sick security. Like the way I love the smell of blood and rot in the pieces of cloth I press over the gashes. And the way I can't look when the blood is seeping through. And like the way I gently part the folds of the velvet drapes to let my eyes fall downcast on the white ethereal marble of my topless body: I don't see the scars of the cuts I've made today. I see tomorrow and yesterday and the beautiful, hideous stream that I can't stop. From my chest to my shorts, there's myself soaked into them. No good anymore, and yet I did nothing to stop it.  
  
  
I cry because of the shame, but I can't really cry. So I let agony seize me and it knots like black solid fire eating it's way deeper inside of me, like the rotting flesh I've cut from myself making me vomit up the old putrid solids I've swallowed: no nourishment in them.  
  
  
Avada Kedavra, another fallen fly. I'll tear off it's wings. I'll make it walk. I'll bring it back to life. I'll feel remorse.  
  
  
But sitting on the edge of my bed I stare until the tears well up at my bare arm and at the ridges and soft, worn away marks, brown, pink, red, black, bleeding, healed, sealed into my flesh. And I will never feel.  
  
  
I raise my wand. Could I feel love? I kill the last fly and am suddenly angry to be the only thing alive in the empty room. The darkness breathes upon my back, my front, my insides. I feel naked to myself. I want to be alone. I want to be without my Self, oh God, but it cannot be taken away...  
  
  
And then I pick up the razor and put down the wand. I am not a wizard.  
  
  
I cut into the soft ivory of my arm and wish to whatever God could flow within the red bullets that pour from me that my arm could once again be so unmarred. The impossibility, the stupid fucking impossibility, I know. I wish to God. There is no God. But I'm not thinking anymore.  
  
  
I cut a little more, and it's not an escape, but a morbid fascination. And it's not self-injury, it's just seeing what I can do, and I'm making something beautiful that's only ugly because it's me. It's not a disease. It feels so normal and sounds so sick.  
  
  
I'm not a wizard. The wand can't do this. I'm a doll.  
  
  
Toying with myself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
+weasley+  
2. and half the time we end up lying side by side  
  
  
  
The moon around the earth around the sun around the space that never seems to change, or grow colder. I'm watching the morning star from my window and it leaves scars in my vision that are childishly impulsive; I focus on the center of my own eye, and the thing moves, darting around, and I follow it, barely aware that I'm chasing an image in my own head.  
  
  
It has a distant heat, the sun, and I can lay in it and slowly let it seep through me. I never wonder if it's my secret for I know it is. I become the heated being of the sun. I become.  
  
  
Tell me I'm not going on and on.   
  
  
"No," you murmur sleepily, "it's alright."  
  
  
Strange, because I never opened my mouth.  
  
  
The tides around the earth, the inhale and exhale of the water and the sky, the rocking of the oceans back and forth on the moonlit pendulum. No whispers, no outspoken lies or rumors or unmeantfor cruelites behind their backs. For they were always smiling and red-haired, cherry-lipped and quickstepped, and with four diamond eyes all glittering with a joke unspoken that no one else could get. Ever. The joke was just a feeling.  
  
  
And of course, two of the diamonds are mine. We with the green eyes like jade pools for luck, charms to bind us... and now I'm going on and on, but you're fast asleep so I don't think you mind.  
  
  
Tell me what's going on. No, it's alright. Tell me what's going on.  
  
  
You fell asleep in my bed, forgetting I was there. I was at the foot draped face down and musing over the spots of light dappling the floor, and you were propped up against the wall reading something without reading, the way you do. And always completely absorbed and occupied, how do you do it, my... what are you, I don't know, but you are mine.  
  
  
So simple, it is with you. So the book slipped to your stomach and you stretched and slid down, lying like you are now, frozen to yourself, which is myself.  
  
  
I should sleep in your bed, I always do when this happens.  
  
  
Or, almost always. Like you almost always with me.  
  
  
And half the time we end up lying side by side with maybe an arm or a leg entwined, or a head of deep burnt amber hair buried in the identical hollow of our necks. Pale necks. Firey hair. And it doesn't matter because we're the same person.  
  
  
I like to think about us. Because we know the insides of each other's heads so perfectly, and yet so mystically, that we are still unsure. I know I have some secrets from you, like these times I sit awake and think and think all about us, or about you...  
  
  
And I forget for moments at a time the taboo and the dirty words like wrong that sometimes sound unlike words in themselves. These forgetful moments. Do you know, I don't think so, because you're me without my Self, you're just me, me, you...  
  
  
And because we're two, so mystically bound, it makes us more, and we shimmer. As if being alive were perfect and amazing... we are together beyond any beauty I know, because you're me and I am you, and we're completely beyond and within each other.  
  
  
I love you, and you love me, that's not wrong at all. But I *love* you, and I guess that's just another secret I'll have from you in sadness. Because I've long ago accepted what will never be, but I've also realized that I can't be alive without staying awake some nights and watching your perfect jewel face as you sleep, for seconds at a time so I don't fall sickly in love like a human mess of emotions, nerves, tears, vomit, and pangs of need, of weakness, of myself.  
  
  
But I guess I'm unavoidable, if I remain myself all the time.  
  
  
Which one am I? The red-haired, the emerald-eyed, the mischievous, the rule-breaking. And impossible to take seriously, the one who laughs all the time. The one who knows you so sincerely that it never needs to be spoken, like when I don't ask you why you need to know what's on my mind, and like you don't tell me it's because you're my brother.  
  
  
George, I'm George. Or Fred. I'm Fred, that's it. I'm Fred.  
  
  
Fred.  
  
  
You're Fred too, you know. Of course you do. You're my brother, you're my twin, we need no reasons, we have no reasons... I love you so much when I forget you. It should hurt so much more than it does. It's a numbing torture. It's a painless crucifixion. And there's no reason for it either (we need none, we need none...)  
  
  
Because you're my brother.  
  
  
It numbs one, to tread a dream in a dream's world, and whisper nothing from behind a mask to the mystery of my so different reflection. And to live in both worlds, night, day, dream, real, until it doesn't matter that I can never know your kiss because the pain I know has filled my veins and crystallized my heart, I can't feel it.  
  
  
It's in another world.  
  
  
Sun covering the earth, the earth covering me, I'm buried in the beauty of my escape that's never an escape. But we're different, you and I, because we're the same, though that makes no sense to me or you. We're different because...  
  
  
Because we're not the same.  
  
  
How simple it all is, I guess, even though... we don't think the same, I know, I know.  
  
  
And you could never want this.  
  
  
And I've always wanted this.  
  
  
And we fell in love the day we saw each other anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
+granger+  
3. as if it filled her mind  
  
  
  
This part of the narrative is told by Hermione Granger. Me, I suppose, though this works better in the third person because one can't properly look at something that one's still a part of.  
  
  
I suppose, she supposes, I mean,  
  
  
She supposes she's not really a part of it all. There, better. She's the observer with the notepad, after all. She's the long-haired quizzical-minded asker of questions. She's the girl.  
  
  
Isn't there always such an awful role for the girl? Of course, half the time she gets the boy, that would work for a fairy tale or a harlequin paperback, for a Muggle pretense or a Wizard romance. Here she scoffs, however that is done, and under her breath sighs emptily. She wonders what she wants. She wonders if she wants anything at all.  
  
  
One posessing no desires has no need for wistfulness, correct? Or perhaps one needs desire to keep one's mind off other things. She sighs, again and again, it bothers her. She yawns on purpose, she coughs, and feels light-headed.  
  
  
The dormitory is always so uneventful, as of course, she *is* the girl. Still, she didn't know the names of her roommates after, what was it at any rate, three, four, five, six years, or rather, one of those. Time never flies, really, or stands still. It wavers on spot sometimes, though, and she reads through pages with lightening speed learning everything under the sun. As if it kept her occupied. As if it filled her mind.  
  
  
I've watched them more than I should, and it makes me smile to see them in such blatant misery. Is the little girl a sadist? Perhaps. And even throughout their waves of inherent ruthless cruelty, she was probably the only one too.  
  
  
Shall this make the girl smile? I think it should, the little girl doesn't smile enough in this story.  
  
  
Her writing is stiff from too many incantations and potion recipes. Had she the notion of a poem inside her head, everyone doubted it, and she did herself; she left the four-poster bed and paced the room, she dropped the book into the sinking reception of her comforter, she sat...  
  
  
Lay down.  
  
  
Lay down and cry, little girl, or have you nothing to cry for. Nothing at all, I guess, and still it's not fun being left behind in all of this...  
  
  
Ginny is a beautiful creature.  
  
  
But the girl's a recorder, with a quill and paper, not bound to things like beauty except to transcend it to the imageless symbols of words dappling a page.  
  
  
What had she seen? A black-haired boy was laying, probably just like herself, in his room, like her own, on his bed, like her bed. He would stare at the ceiling and record nothing. His thoughts would make the quick circle of conclusion and start again and he would scream silently for them to shut up and perhaps he'd fall asleep.  
  
  
And a red-haired boy would be banging his head against the wall, feeling everything and nothing, because he just didn't know, don't you know? You know, you know.  
  
  
Banging his head.  
  
  
The narrative should really tell you something but it has nothing more to tell, really, can't think of a thing.  
  
  
He bangs his head every night. Not really, really, he just paces, maybe, or shuts himself into the curtains of his bed, sets fire to things with his wand and blows them up, shatters them, breaks, cracks, crushes, destroys, everything to keep it from getting to him.  
  
  
And the eyes with glasses are always open but always pretending to be asleep. He's thinking about nothing, and everything, she supposes, she can't get inside his head, so there's no use. There's always the age-old adage: maybe he's in love.  
  
  
Love: an impossibility. Tongue, swallowed; eyes, blinded; hands, burned; skin, ripped away. Bared to all. Naked to the world. Yet no one seems to look over.  
  
  
Does he care?  
  
  
Does the red-haired one, the black-haired one, the sighing child, the boys, the twins, the shadowed son of evil, the ember of the moral bonfire, the standers-by, the Irish boy, the Scottish boy, the Quidditch team, the red-cloaked, green-cloaked, blue-cloaked, the houses, the serpents, the lions... do they care?  
  
  
The girl cannot care, for she is just a recorder. And there is nothing of her on the paper, only the days.  
  
  
And here the narrative will end for now.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
+potter+  
4. the soft velvet rose petals, crimson and white  
  
  
  
I love the roses in the school's garden. I forget the hands that tend them. There's a giant who lives beyond the school and I... the petty thoughts like water roll off my mind and I remember that I had forgotten.  
  
  
How could I forget, I ask myself, how could I forget my sorrow? The jarring betrayal swells to rip a little more within.  
  
  
It's too huge for me to swallow any more, and I can't push it any deeper than it is; it's like a tear that grows and overflows, a river spilling over and a nameless sensation.  
  
  
And yet I'm healthy, aren't I? Because everything I do is right. And I don't think broken thoughts because i'm too motionless to think. It occurs to me that all my constructs of right and wrong were bled into me. I don't have to bury myself in the walls of words I spoke myself, the promises I made to deafened ears and a face in a picture.  
  
  
They move like they're alive, and I wonder if maybe I'm alive like them, an image of an image of a life.  
  
  
Or am I substantial in a way I can't feel?  
  
  
Just for fun I put on the Invisibility Cloak, but it's not fun at all. Ha ha! I'm laughing at my own joke, and I wonder how long it's been since I talking to anyone.  
  
  
I pass Ron inside his self-contructed haven of seclusion, and I think I'd have whispered something to him like a goodbye if the curtains hadn't been drawn so tight. That, and of course I don't whisper to him anymore cause it doesn't seem right. At any rate. He didn't see me disappear.  
  
  
So walking through the shifting staircases I wonder why the world changes all the time yet stays the same and then the thoughts make me want to die. Then I think of Moaning Myrtle and I feel strangely shut out of all worlds. Happy as an adolescant, I'm just a crier, thinking, thinking, all the time in circles and never getting anywhere or thinking anything unthought. Shut up, so are you. Fuck off. Fuck you.  
  
  
Anger solves it.  
  
  
I ended up in the rose garden, which is empty (because it's late and the place is cold, and no one  
walks the gardens after supper because it's not against the rules and there's nothing to do there anyway; if people snogged there, there'd be teachers crawling.)  
  
  
As it is, it's a beautiful, empty world of blood-red roses and snow white...  
  
  
Oh. And a boy, swept off his feet and bent over himself, sitting under the appleblossom tree and veiled in the pale petals that have settled in his silver hair. I know you, Mister Malfoy. I feel things about you, because you're a mystery, your father, your mother, the house where you live or die, and those long shadows you leave staining my continuum where you disappear.  
  
  
I disappear. I remember you can't see me, I forgive you for saying nothing.  
  
  
But I sit next to you and am about to lift the cloak from my face and say something to you when I see the razor in your hand and the apple blossoms and the soft velvet rose petals, crimson and white, sticking to the gashes on your arm.  
  
  
Staring at the silent violence. And your tears are muted. Hold you. You're alone, though. I've disappeared.  
  
  
God.  
  
  
God, god, god.  
  
  
I run because you don't know I'm there, but God, God, God, I can think of nothing but the way you breathed through your soundless sobs. The way your body quaked. And in the empty garden, you thought yourself so alone, I almost cried or screamed or cut the apple blossom tree to pieces because you didn't know you weren't.  
  
  
God, God, God.  
  
  
I'm staring at my forearms and they're creamy white.  
  
  
I can't stop imagining a cherry red mouth carved into the skin, just a cut where the pale lips could part and cry and cry.  
  
  
I can't stop staring at my arms. And now. They've become your arms.  
  
  
Draco.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
+weasley+  
5. you have something on your mind, i don't mind  
  
  
  
I'm Fred! I have to remember, really, you're so bent on us being the same person I forget. You came up to me in the mirror and hugged me around the neck and shoulders and spun us, daring me to guess who was who; you call me George all the time. I know you hugged me because of something on your mind. I don't mind. I know you hug me all the time, I don't mind... I live for all the ways you come into me, and I live to be the strength for you.  
  
  
Or is that an overstatement, I think it is. I know why I can't let you hurt, I know, you're me, I'm you, you say it all the time. But then how can I hate me and love you? How can I feel so alone when I'm in bed with me, and then feel more alone, yet more amazed and filled when I'm in bed with you, just curled by you, as you curl around me, as you do.  
  
  
You do it more and more now, you have something on your mind, I don't mind.  
  
  
Except...  
  
  
If we were the same, perfectly the same...  
  
  
Tell me and I'll never unbecome you.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
TBC.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
A/N: Yesss... I did Fred twice and George not at all, sorry. It's a weird style, I'm aware... which is why... oh my, have I become one of those awful people who begs for reviews at the end of every chapter? *sweatdrops* Yes, yes I have... please review, just a little something to make me keep going?  
  
^_^  
++the.last.of.the.crazy.people 


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